Banjos, Beauty Queens, and Broken Hearts
by HarleenQuinn
Summary: When Smithers becomes a successful music star, both he and Burns must make important decisions about their friendship. Chapter 5 up!
1. Chapter 1

AUTHORESS'S NOTE: Hi, everybody:) I felt like writing something a little different today, so I wrote the first chapter of a story I've been wanting to write for a while. Please read and review. Thank you:)

BANJOS, BEAUTY QUEENS, AND BROKEN HEARTS

CHAPTER ONE:

I exhaled yet another two nebulae of hoary air as I glanced at my watch and noticed how even the wrist it was attached to was shaking. In five minutes, the party would commence, and I knew from past experience the ire and disappointment I would evoke in my boss if it was not entirely up to par, if one table was set up askew, if I had put 84 candles on the cake instead of 83, if said cake was not quite saccharine enough, if the entertainment was not quite tasteful enough…

My heart began to knock against my chest with each new thought of a possible error I may have made. I reminisced about the last birthday bash I had held for my beloved: a bash that showcased an insulting rendition of "Happy Birthday" from the Ramones, a humiliating comedy act from that ungainly boor Homer Simpson, and a gift from me in which my dear one was not even interested enough to turn his head at. I had received the thrashing of a lifetime that day, and although it physically caused me no pain, tears soaked my heart for days to come.

All I ever wanted was to make my friend happy, and I had planned this extravaganza for weeks simply so this happiness could be accomplished. Every year, I toiled assiduously over every last detail, ensuring even the tiniest minutiae were without fault; however, when the day actually came and the curtains were minutes away from being risen, I never failed to hyperventilate. I looked at my watch once more, out of desire for diversion more than necessity.

It was time.

After putting out my latest cigarette, I closed my eyes, took a satiating breath, and endeavored to isolate my thoughts from the blather of the guests behind the curtain. _Nothing is going to go wrong tonight, Waylon. You hired the finest caterers, the décor is exquisite, you didn't invite the Simpsons, you hired Tony Bennett for God's sake! Nothing can go wrong this time. _

With the comfort of these thoughts, I opened my eyes once more and finally raised the curtain.

"Welcome, everyone," I announced as the audience began to silence themselves. "We are gathered here today to honor a truly special man, one that never ceases to amaze and inspire me: my boss and my best friend, Mr. Charles Montgomery Burns. Take a bow, Monty."

"Don't call me 'Monty'," mumbled Mr. Burns as he stood to the plaudits of the guests and flashed a pretentious smile their way. As he took his seat again, I continued, "To celebrate this 83rd birthday of this incredible man, I have hired Mr. Tony Bennett to commence the party with a few of Mr. Burns' most loved tunes. Mr. Bennett?"

I took a few steps to my left, waiting for Bennett's entrance. It never came. I began sweating underneath my tuxedo as I stared to my right at the erroneously empty place beside me. "Mr. Bennett?" I called out once more from the microphone. The guests began to whisper. I looked out at the plethora of confused and accusing eyes, the eyes of the myriad celebrities and big shots that had come every year and were now just expecting me to fail.

But what hurt me to a much greater degree was hearing Mr. Burns sigh and remark, "Fabulous. No entertainment. Well, then, let's just eat the damn cake and get this stupid party over with."

Then I heard a voice cry out from the audience: "Why don't you sing us a little ditty, Mr. Smithers?"

I peered out into the marine of faces and spotted Homer Simpson, obviously drunk, standing on his chair, raising his wine glass to me. He had crashed my party. He and his equally inebriated coworkers, Lenny Leonard and Carl Carlson. My blood boiled.

"No, that won't do, Simpson. Now sit down," I attempted.

"Come on, Mr. Smithers. It's a birthday party. We need to hear the song. The song is the only good part anyway. It's just so cleverly-written. And it never fails to make me laugh either."

I tried once more: "Cease your absurd natter, Simpson," but that phrase only made him burst into an inexplicable burst of giggles as he continued to egg me on.

After a few minutes of humiliating myself in front of my peers and superiors with my exchange with Simpson, Mr. Burns stood and demanded, "Smithers, just sing the blasted song or else that drunken lout, whoever he is, will continue on."

I considered calling security and simply having Simpson removed from the party, but I knew that would only cause more of a scene. So, I obeyed Mr. Burns' demand, and nervously crooned "Happy Birthday" to him. I had never fancied myself much of a singer and could feel my cheeks grow increasingly heated with each line I droned.

However, for some unbeknownst reason, people were applauding me after I had finished. I felt like I had stepped into some Twilight Zone; people were applauding me? For nothing but a little rendition of one of the least impressive songs known to man?

I thought for certain that I was in some Bizzaro realm when I heard someone request I sing another song. _They must just be too desperate for entertainment_, I told myself, but as I was about to leave the stage, Mr. Burns cried, "Come on, Smithers, sing something! What are you doing leaving the stage? We asked you to sing. Now sing!"

As nervous and embarrassed as I was, Mr. Burns' desire to hear me sing was all I needed to hear. "But I don't know what to sing," I stammered, but then a thought came to me. "Well, I did write a little song…it's nothing really, but…"

"Just sing the song already!"

"Okay. Um…It goes something like… Another year has come and gone, and I've lost the strength to continue on. You could be my light, my effulgence bright, but that's not what you want to be. I see your darkness deep inside, the terror you refuse to hide. I'd pull you up and into me, but that's not where you want to be. I know your needs while you only know your desires. I know your rainfalls while you only know your fires. I could be the one you need so dear, but that's not why you want me here. No, I'm only here to play the fool, to keep you happy and ensure your rule. I'm what you need, but not what you want. But that's not who I want to be. That's not me, it's just not me, and it's something I can no longer be."

I then stopped my ballad and looked at Mr. Burns. More than anything, I had hoped he would be looking back at me, realizing that he was the only one in the world I could possibly be singing to. But instead, I saw him telling some war story to the man seated next to him. I set the microphone down and trudged off the stage, my sclerae growing red from the emotion I had so ineffectively poured out of me.

I tried to escape to the bathroom but as I began to wash my hands and face, a tall man with platinum blond hair and clad in dashing sapphire-hued tuxedo approached me. "Mr. Smithers, why did you run off the stage like that?"

I turned to him with surprise and frustration. "Because my song was ridiculous and obviously didn't even get through to anyone."

"Whoa. What? What made you say that?"

"I saw the expressions on the guests when I finished singing; they were looking like I was an extraterrestrial being from Neptune or something. And then Mr. Burns, well…" I began, then realizing that I didn't even know the man I was talking to, I finished, "Well, it was just pointless and embarrassing."

"Well, I thought it was splendid, Mr. Smithers. You sang it with great emotion and verve, and it was obvious that your lyrics meant a great deal to you. And that's what we're lacking these days in music: the genuine factor of the songs. Lyrics are practically nonexistent in most popular music, but it's what I've always believed to be the most essential aspect of a good song," the man said.

I looked at him, intrigued. "So, you're in the business?"

"I am," he said with a smile, offering his hand. "I'm Stacey Oliver, talent agent. Have you ever thought about pursuing a career in music?"

Taken aback, I replied, "Well, no. I've never considered myself much of a musician."

"Do you play any instruments?"

"Well, yes. Guitar, banjo, piano…"

"Perfect. You're perfect. Meet me at the Gilded Truffle tomorrow. We'll talk."


	2. Chapter 2

AUTHORESS'S NOTE: Thank you all for reading and reviewing! It really means a lot to me. Please continue read and review. Thank you:)

CHAPTER TWO:

Timothy and Helen Lovejoy gossiped about Maude Flanders' recent five-pound weight gain as Marge Simpson attempted to pull her son off the roof of the restaurant where he was trying to reach some type of miniature rocket he must have thrown up there. Ned Flanders was giving the waiter a hard time because said waiter had never heard of a "capu-diddly-ino-cino" while Clancy Wiggum was too engulfed in his meal of heavily-don pasta to pay much attention to the reprobate robbing the bank next door.

Amidst all of this I sat, waiting for Mr. Oliver to arrive and having no notion of what he would say. I felt in my heart that the whole setup was a scam; I was no singer and never claimed to be. He must have only sensed my affluence and vulnerability, thinking I was some fool who'd buy into any scheme as long as it made me feel talented and appreciated. He was wrong.

Nonetheless, I decided I would hear him out. After all, the entire audience of elitists applauded my songs, so maybe there was something there that I, being consistently affianced with at least a fair amount of self-loathing, was too occupied to see.

I looked at my watch again, with an all too familiar anxiety present cold in my blood. I was not the most social of people despite having years of experience rubbing elbows with some of the most high-class citizens in Springfield, and Mr. Oliver's gregarious nature set me off a bit and did not blend well with my fear that I would somehow be talked into being scammed.

As I repeatedly commanded myself in my mind to regard any offer the man gave me with extreme prudence, I was startled by the sudden sound of his distinct, silvery voice greeting me. I looked up to see Mr. Oliver, looking quite different than he did the previous night. The natty formal suit had been replaced with a surprising combination of worn-out jeans, deerskin gloves, and chaps. The shiny white hair that had gleamed under the mellow lights of Mr. Burns' ballroom was now covered with a cloud-hued, felt cowboy hat. I doubt I would have recognized him if it were not for that unforgettable voice and the fact that he sat down across from me and wished me a good morning.

"Good morning, Mr. Oliver," I greeted, still a bit startled.

"Oh, please. Call me Stacey. Now, Waylon, you want to be a star?"

I resisted the urge to roll my eyes and said, "Not particularly."

"Well, that's really a shame, because I have a feeling you're going to be one," Stacey spurted out as if he had practiced these lines millions of times.

"What makes you say that?"

"You just have that certain quality. I can feel it. All you need is…what's the word…"

"Talent?"

Stacey laughed, "No, you have plenty of that. You just need an advantage. Something especially unique to sell you. You do seem intelligent, and like I mentioned to you before, your lyric-writing abilities may be meritorious, but you need an extra edge. Maybe you could…"

Before this got out of hand, I intercepted, "Stacey, I truly appreciate your interest, but I don't really desire to get into the music business. I'm quite happy at my current job."

"Well, you'll be happier at this one," remarked Stacey offhandedly. "Now what I think we should…"

My patience had been tried and failed. "Look, Stacey, I don't want to be a musician, and I'm not going to leave a steady, well-paying job that I love just for a fruitless chance at stardom. I know I'm not talented or good-looking or anything that is necessary to actually make it in the music world, so please stop tendering me these thinly-veiled flatteries and obviously-fallacious speculation."

Stacey looked at me like he was a little boy who just had his first love break his heart. "Waylon, I really believe you could be a success…more than a success, a true star."

"Save it."

"It's the truth," he exclaimed, slamming his fist dramatically down and immediately recoiling when he realized it was on a fork which he slammed.

"Are you okay?" I asked as he winced.

"No. I'm bleeding." I quickly offered him a few napkins, which he began wrapping around his finger. "Thanks." Then he looked away and cried, "If only mere papers could stop the bleeding in my heart!"

I sighed. "Stacey…"

"Wait…maybe they could!" He smiled and reached into his briefcase, an odd, turquoise piece of luggage adorned with yellow sparkles. He pulled out a contract and shoved it in my face.

"Mr. Oliver! What did I just finish telling you?" This guy would just not let up.

"Please Waylon."

"No."

"Please? Pretty please? With sugar and whipped cream and those semi-sweet milk chocolate chips on top?" begged Stacey. "Tell you what. I won't continue begging you to sign the contract. But at least give the business one try. Just one try, and if you don't like it, or if it doesn't work out, it will be no money lost from you."

I hesitated and considered my options. _It is just one try, Waylon. It couldn't really hurt, could it? _

_ But I'd never want to leave my job. _

_But you won't have to necessarily; no one's making you quit, just see how it goes. _

_But I already know that I would never leave Mr. Burns, so why even try? _

_Because at the very least, it could be a worthwhile experience. At least you'll learn whether or not you really do have a secret talent. _

_I guess. _

_And who knows? Maybe you will become a star. You know you've always wanted to be one. No matter how much you deny it. _

_Yes, but…I would never leave Mr. Burns. _

_Are you sure about that? _

"Waylon? Are you okay?" asked Stacey, snapping me out of my trance.

"Um…yes, I'm fine," I began, taking a sip of the now-cold latte I had ordered. "And…I will give it a try."

"You will?"

I smiled for the first time that day and shrugged. "Why not? Like you said, I have nothing to lose."

Joy instantly returned to Stacey's eyes. "Oh, this is wonderful, Waylon! You won't regret it!" He then almost just as immediately transmogrified back into his confident, casual self. "Now all you have to do tonight is write me a song. Tomorrow you can bring it to my studio and we'll have a look at it, see if it's the kind of thing we're looking for. And if not, no worry! I have a whole team of writers that could fix it up, but I would prefer it come from you and your heart because that's what really makes a song good."

So, I did when Stacey instructed me to do. That night when I got home, I pulled on a warm sweatshirt emblazoned with the word "Stanford" across it (just to remind myself that I was an educated man capable of writing something worthwhile) and put on some spiced-butter-rum-scented candles to inspire a literary mood inside me.

It was difficult for me to become comfortable within my own skin enough to actually write something. I knew that I had to rid myself of all the soul-forged manacles I had wrapped around my wrists if I was ever going to get the attached hands to move across a page. The primary problem was that I was deeply afraid of what would spill out of me and my pen if I were to actually write; I was scared of what I'd find out about myself if I really looked, which writing almost always forces one to do

Nevertheless, I knew that it had to be done. And I had recently broke out of my fear-induced shackles enough to write the song I sang at Mr. Burns' party; I'm not even quite certain why, but as the party was approaching, I found that writing actually soothed my inner tornado. So, I hoped now that my anxiety regarding the entire music situation would offer me some magical form of literary zest.

And quite magically, it did. After inhaling a few deep breaths of air and setting my mind at peace, I was able to let go of almost all my preconceived doubts and apprehensions: I was able to let myself write. I didn't care about how wrong it felt to write what I was writing. I just let the words come and didn't think twice.

Until the next day when I realized that all I had to show Stacey were love songs written about men. Or in my case, one specific man. I was positively humiliated giving this talent agent these songs that would in all probability sicken him, but I just told myself that what I had written was just my mind's way of telling me that a career in music was simply never meant to be for me.

"Waylon, maybe I'm not reading this correctly, but…it sounds like you're writing about…" began Stacey as he scanned my first song.

I hung my head. "You're reading it correctly, Stacey. I'll go now."

"Wait! Don't go. You're gay?"

"I don't label myself," I instinctively answered.

"So, you're gay then?"

I attempted not to let my frustration with this age-old question show. "I…have gay tendencies, yes. So, like I said, I'll go now."

"What are you talking about, going? Being gay…that's your advantage!"

"What?" Advantage? I'd never heard anyone describe it that way.

Stacey's crystal blue eyes bulged as he began to pace around the room excitedly. He could barely contain this excitement, which I had no comprehension of. "A confused country star. Defying the stereotypes. A role model for the questioning. A sex symbol for the new generation."

"A sex symbol? Me? Hold on there, Stacey…"

"No, I won't hold on, Waylon," he said, looking in my eyes and seemingly seeing stars. "I've said it before, and I'll say it again: you, my friend, are perfect."


	3. Chapter 3

AUTHORESS'S NOTE: Thank you all for reading and reviewing! It really means a lot to me. Please continue read and review. Thank you:)

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER THREE:

Much to my surprise, Stacey's entire team of writers fell in love with my song of unrequited longing for an unattainable man. Despite their almost excessive plaudits, I couldn't help but feel like I had just given up a part of my soul that was never, ever meant to surface above that sole stair deep in my spirit where it lurked and fought and rarely slept. Now, just with one offering of my writing, it was no longer a secret. There were now five men in the same room with me, five men who perhaps knew me better than any of the dippy Springfield folk that I had shared a town with for the past 43 years. And God did that thought unnerve me.

Nevertheless, when Stacey requested my presence the next week to record a rough version of the song to air on a little-known Ogdenvillian radio station called "EANLR: New Music, Politics, and A Bunch of Other Stuff That Most People Don't Take the Time to Listen To", the only word that had the capacity to exit my mouth was an involuntary and solid "yes". I afterward decided that my mouth was right to have said what it said: as long as the song would not be broadcast to Springfield, I didn't have too much of a problem with it being heard, and I knew that "EANLR" was a dignified station, as it was the only one Mr. Burns would ever turn on during the very few times we were ever in Ogdenville.

It did feel extremely strange as I recorded it though, in front of those vigilant eyes that gaped into mine as I expelled my heart's wounds in the form of slightly off-key crooning and straightforward banjo-plucking. I had never felt so exposed and susceptible in my life, but I had also never felt so proud. I had written a song, and it was beautiful and it was real. Even I couldn't deny that, and for once, I didn't want to. Hearing the song play over the speakers of that tiny recording studio, I began to think that perchance Stacey was right about me.

I was actually a bit sad at the thought that no one I actually knew was going to hear my work, but I knew that that was with neither doubt nor vacillation for the best. So, after leaving the studio and bidding my farewells to Stacey and the crew, I headed home filled with poignant pride and prepared for the evening that Mr. Burns had planned for us. He came to pick me up promptly at seven and we leisurely drove to the Gilded Truffle. Everything seemed perfect that night: I was being driven around town by my love, I felt accomplished and excited for what the future held, the stars were glinting with a rarely discerned patina of polish, the delicious aroma of the meal that awaited us could breathed in from miles away...I sighed with delight as Mr. Burns parked the car and we began to saunter into the restaurant.

"What do you _mean_ you lost our reservation?" exclaimed Mr. Burns at the blemish-laden teen behind the counter. I stood behind Mr. Burns, arms crossed over my chest in instant anger that our perfect night had been marred. My anger then quickly turned to guilt as I wondered why I had been so confident in the perfection that seemed to be offered to me; usually when things seemed without fault, I would become fearful of ruination and do everything possible to prevent it, but tonight, I didn't do my job correctly and now here we were.

"I'm sorry, sir, but we don't have your reservation, and we're completely booked tonight," the teen began in a squeaky voice that sounded like teeth scratching against a chalkboard. He then eyed Mr. Burns' Armani suit and lush mink coat with interest. "But we could always…make a place for you…"

"I'm not giving you any more of my precious money when it's you tomfools who aggrieved me so with your unforgiveable solecisms! Smithers, get the car."

"Yes, sir."

"Wait, sir!" cried the teen as Mr. Burns slammed the door in his homely face.

"Where to now, sir? The Singing Sirloin?" I asked as Mr. Burns gripped his hands on the steering wheel and for a moment he merely stared ahead into the diamond-spangled canvas of the night. He then looked at me and said, "No, Smithers, we're getting out of Springfield tonight." He began driving.

"What? Why?"

"I'm so sick and tired of the rut I'm in: go to the plant, hang out with you, get ripped off by the townspeople…So, for tonight I'm going to depart from this rut and try something new. Let's be wild, Smithers. Let's go slumming. Let's get ourselves some fine, young ladies and not call them back the next morning."

I grew more concerned with each new idea that Mr. Burns offered. "Sir, I really think we should stay in Springfield, go have dinner…or we could go back to your house and I could make you dinner: duck a l'orange, your favorite…"

"Oh, my dear, boring old Smithers," Mr. Burns replied, shaking his head. "If I didn't know better, I'd think you were the old man here."

Embarrassed that his claim was accurate, I attempted, "Well…I suppose we could modify our routine a bit, but getting drunk and using women doesn't sound like the most appealing evening to me, Mr. Burns."

"Balderdash! You're a man of parts so don't try to deny the magnetism of the natural game,"

Every time Mr. Burns complimented me in such a way, my heart would become a hot air balloon and usually simply float to arcadia, but on that night my anxiety was at war with my need for Mr. Burns' love. I suppose this was because I knew that if anything were to go wrong, I could lose that love forever, and I had an increasingly bad feeling about our leaving town.

"Sir, what can I say to convince you to stay here in Springfield?" I pleaded, even trying to use my puppy dog look that always got to him, but he merely kept his eyes on the long shadowy pathway ahead and asked, "Why are you protesting so amain?"

I had no notion of how to answer. "I just think that…Well…we don't even know where to go…"

"Claptrap once again, Smithers. I know just the place. It was whilom quite the 'hip' locale for young men to gather and find a bit of romance with the…friendly ladies occupied there, and still comparatively is," Mr. Burns told me.

"How do you know it still is?" I asked.

Mr. Burns turned to me, angrily mortified. "Oh, shut up."

"Oh," I uttered, now embarrassed once again. I began visualizing Mr. Burns leaving the plant after the workday had finished, after he and I had bid each other our goodnights…him feeling a bit more in tune to his urges than usual…driving down away from Springfield, his sunny skin a rare blend of yellow and red...flirting up some beautiful woman and finally having his way with her. The image made me burn with both jealousy and desire. I then forced myself to snap out of my reverie and inquire, "Where is this place, sir? Shelbyville?"

"Shelbyville?! Never! I haven't set foot in Shelbyville since 1961 and don't plan to anytime soon."

The revelation in my heart almost killed its rapid beating altogether. I looked at Mr. Burns with dreading eyes. "…North Haverbrook?" I asked, hoping against all hope that I was right, even succumbing to the last resort of praying to a God in which I didn't even really believe.

"Nope, guess again!" Mr. Burns demanded playfully.

Taking a deep breath, I asked, "Ogdenville?"

"Correct! You get a sticker!"

My stomach lurched and I began to feel the need to pull the car over, but my mind calmed me by saying, _So what if we're going to Ogdenville? It doesn't necessarily mean that Mr. Burns will hear your song. He might forget to turn on that station. And if he does turn it on, what are the chances that your song will be the one playing? Or the one after that? It's possible but not overwhelmingly probable. _

"Smithers, are you quite all right?"

"Oh, um…yes, sir, I'm fine. I just don't feel too well," I groggily answered.

"Well, that will change once we get to the Lovejoy House of Burlesque."

For a moment I had forgotten about my fear and simply laughed. "Lovejoy? As in Timothy Lovejoy's father?"

Mr. Burns chuckled, "Great-great-great-grandfather actually. Oh, perhaps we should take the reverend and his irksome little family there one day and show them a good time."

We both shared a laugh and I realized that my stomach couldn't be aching while it was convulsing with mirth, but it wasn't long before Mr. Burns decided to turn the radio on, and predictably to "EANLR".

My jollity soared out the window as I waited to hear what song would first play. I couldn't have been more thankful to hear that it was currently a political debate that was airing instead of any type of music. I couldn't have been more nauseated when the announcer a moment following declared that the debate would be back after a debut song from a new country singer from two towns over.

I reached my hand out to turn the station off, but Mr. Burns held it in mid-air and asked, "Smithers, what is wrong with you tonight? I want to hear this song, thank you very much. The person may be from Springfield and if so, I probably will have some new ammunition against them."

"Sir, please…I…I just really don't like country music." It was an extremely poor attempt but the only one the sweating folds that comprised my brain could come up with at the time.

"What? Yes, you do. Now shut up and let me listen," Mr. Burns commanded.

I literally considered jumping out of the car and making a run for it when my voice began singing those words: "The frame of your body; your eyes of joys and of woes; your pale, porcelain skin; your carefully-chosen clothes; the sound of your voice; clarion yet whispery still; the way of your sauntering with relaxed, composed will. You're the man of my dreams, of my deepest reverie. And it kills me when it seems that you don't even see. I don't know how to tell you. I probably never will. Just know you cause the tears that southward my cheeks do trill. Go ahead and break my heart again; hammer it until its death. I'll still love you until the very end, until you breathe your final breath. Because you're the man that I canonize, the only god I'll ever adore. You're the dearest friend I've ever had, and yet I know you can never be more."

_What the hell were you thinking recording that, Waylon? What in God's name could you have possibly been thinking? What? _

Mr. Burns turned the radio off and stopped the car on the side of the street. He then looked over at me with an expression I had never once seen on his face before; he looked like he didn't even know me at all. "Smithers…what…I…why…" he stuttered. I had never heard him stutter before. "I can't believe…I guess I should have known, but…no, it still doesn't…"

I merely waited in the passenger seat listening to Mr. Burns try to make sense of what I had just indirectly revealed to him until he finally formed a coherent sentence, the very one I had expected and dreaded: "So, you're…a homosexual, Smithers?" I could hear the repulsion trickling down from each word as he said them.

God, I hated this question more than any other. It was possibly the only one in the world that I didn't know the answer to, and possibly the only one that really mattered. "No…sir, I…I'm…well, I…sometimes, I'm…"

"Is there some confusion about this?" he asked, now sounding dangerously angry and impatient.

I know he didn't mean it the way that I interpreted it, but I still hung my head and sighed, "Yes. So much."

Taken aback by my response, Mr. Burns looked ahead into the night and began drumming his fingers nervously against the steering wheel. "So, you're not …?"

_Damn it, it wasn't supposed to happen like this! _"Two thirds of the time I am…um…homosexual. But there are times when I'm not…"

Looking more confused than ever, Mr. Burns asked, "So, you enjoy concupiscence with men _and _women?"

"You make it sound so tawdry," I said unthinkingly.

"Well, excuse _me_!" exclaimed Mr. Burns. "I'm just attempting to figure out how it works!"

"I know, I'm sorry…" I began, still unable to look him in the eyes. "I suppose that is how it works."

At that point, Mr. Burns just shook his head and widen his eyes in disbelief, asking me: "But why, Smithers?" 

"'Why'?"

"Yes, why. Why would you partake in such grotesque practices…sodomy…" He looked over at me finally and must have seen something in my eyes that prevented him from finishing his interrogation. "Nevermind, Smithers…I'll just take you home, then."

"Okay."

We turned around and drove to back to Springfield in complete silence, the worst I've ever endured, as my mind spun achingly with thoughts I don't even now have the strength to relive. The only words that broke our painful quietude were Mr. Burns' as he pulled into my driveway: "Smithers…who was the song about?" he questioned.

_He doesn't know? He doesn't know?! _I stared at him, jaw agape, congealed in a moment of both rhapsodic hope and gut-wrenching disappointment. "Sir, it's about…"

_Tell him. This could be the day that you confess everything. Just get it all out. He knows you're not straight. Now just come clean about everything. _

_No, he will never understand this way. This is all so new to him; I have to let him process all this first. And then I'll tell him. _

_No, you won't. You always say that but you never do it. _

_I will this time. _

_Stop living in denial. If you don't tell him now, you never will. _

"Sir, it's…it's not about anyone in particular. It's just something I thought up."

"Oh…okay…"

I got out of the car and wondered if I'd ever return to it. I offered a small, "Goodnight, Mr. Burns," but I couldn't even finish before Mr. Burns zoomed out of the driveway without so much as a final glance at me.


	4. Chapter 4

AUTHORESS'S NOTE: I'm sorry for the extremely long delay in posting any new chapters. I've been very busy with school, writing my novel, et cetera, but I've decided to start adding to my fics again. Thank you all for reading and reviewing! It really means a lot to me. Please continue read and review. Thank you. :)

CHAPTER FOUR:

The next day, I sat in my office with cold sweat seeping into my back and ten breaths fighting for favor at once. I had not yet seen Mr. Burns all morning, and glancing at my watch, I saw that it was 10:16 already. Mr. Burns had always come in at least by 9:00, and I was growing more anxious by the minute. I tried to take a sip of the green tea latte I had bought earlier but my hand just shook as I picked it up and the tea itself had become an unpleasantly tepid.

I put the cup back down and attempted to focus on my work. I had piles of it to do, and so far, I had only taken care of correcting a few billing errors. It had been my most unproductive day in my entire career as an executive. I felt simply awful, reflecting on the humiliating events of the past night, theorizing about how it would affect my friendship with Mr. Burns, wishing my shallow desire for fame wouldn't have turned me into such a fool.

I stared at the piece of paper that seemed to have magically appeared before me. I didn't even remember placing it there, but suddenly, I was reading it, or at least trying to. The words all blurred together like they were forming an inkblot. At this point, I grew so frustrated that I knocked one whole pile of papers from my desk to the floor and rubbed the eyes veiled by my glasses with helplessness. Then I heard the voice.

"Smithers, what in God's name do you think you're doing?" yelled Mr. Burns, as he finally sauntered into our conjoined office space.

I quickly looked up at him and got down to the floor to clean up the mess I caused. "I'm sorry, sir. I just…my hand slipped…"

Mr. Burns eyed me curiously, and I knew very well that he had seen my display of rage as just that, but he said nothing more. He walked to his desk and immediately began watching the employees on the surveillance cameras.

Returning the last paper to my desk, I was tempted to ask Mr. Burns where he had been all morning, but I decided not to. I sat back in my seat and tried to concentrate on a complaint from the Springfield Environmental Council. It was a bit easier to focus, just knowing that Mr. Burns was alive, well, and at work, but that fact didn't by any means cure the rest of the nerves that were swimming in my stomach.

For about an hour, Mr. Burns and I spoke not even a word to one another. The day had won another record as the most silent day we had ever spent at the plant. However, just as the clock struck 12, Mr. Burns spoke: "Smithers, come in here. Who is that?"

I wandered into Mr. Burns' office and took a seat next to him, relieved that he was partaking in one of our usual routines and was actually talking to me at all. "Who is who, sir?" I asked. Mr. Burns pointed to a young, new worker I had hired a few months ago. "Oh, that's David Polonski. One of the few competent laborers from Sector 2-F."

"And who is that?" asked Mr. Burns, pointing now to a gangly, middle-aged man whose face was flat on his control panel as he slept.

"Garrett Bentley. Supervisor of Sector 4-J."

"I want them both fired."

"What? Why?"

"These tomfools think we don't put surveillance cameras in the bathrooms," Mr. Burns sighed, shaking his head. "And so I was forced to sit here, watching them partake in one of those new-age kisses that repulsively utilize not only the lips, but also the tongue."

"Oh, I see," I said quietly. "Well…I know office romances are looked down upon, but I don't think we need to fire them for it."

"It's not that locale of the romance; it's the fact that there is a romance to begin with. Now go fire those sodomites and start hiring for their positions posthaste."

My mouth hung open for a few moments before I have the strength to ask: "You want me to fire them because they are…well…?"

"Yes, it's still legal in this state to terminate based on sexual preference, and even if it weren't, you've never had a problem bending or even breaking the law before. So, off you go. And on your way back, bring me a strawberry jam biscuit for lunch."

I tried to remain calm. "Sir, Polonski has proven over these last few months that he has been working here that he is a very intelligible man and a proficient worker, one of the few we have. Bentley's aptitude, on the other hand, has declined slowly but surely, and I suppose I can see why he should be fired, but Polonski…"

"Smithers, wherefore are you arguing with me? I told you to do something; now you shall do it," Mr. Burns said, anger slowly filling his beautiful face.

"No."

"No?"

I hesitated. I couldn't believe I had just said that horrible word to Mr. Burns. "I mean…I disagree with your assessment of these workers. Can we discuss it at length and make a final decision?"

Mr. Burns' eyes now bulged in a rather unbecoming way as he shouted, "'Can _we _discuss it? Can _we _make a final decision?' Whom do you think you are, Smithers? You think because you got a couple songs on the radio that you're the cock of the walk now? Well, you're not.You're not my equal. You're not even close."

Every word was a new arrow in my heart, but I managed to utter, "Sir, I thought one of my job titles was as your advisor."

"Perchance that's true, but you're only my advisor when I want you to be, and this is not one of those times. I've already made a decision, and now you shall carry it out."

"But…sir, I'm only saying this for the good of the company. We need Polonski."

"There's that 'we' again," Mr. Burns said, now in a new, truculent tone that made me shiver with tension. "Smithers, I'm very tempted to believe that your only opposition to this termination is due to some perverse loyalty you feel to your own kind of people."

"How can you say that when I clearly stated that I had very little qualm about firing Bentley?"

"Because Bentley is a homely, old man, while Polonski is quite the handsome fellow," Mr. Burns said before blushing, cringing at his own words, and adding, "Well, at least, someone like _you_ might think so."

"Sir, I have no interest in Polonski. This whole thing is preposterous." I began to instinctively tug at my bow tie, which was beginning to feel like a live boa constrictor around my dripping neck.

Mr. Burns stared at me without a blink. "So, then you should have no problem firing him. Let me rephrase that: you _will_ have no problem firing him. Because if you do, I will have no problem firing you either. Believe me, after last night, I will have no problem firing you."

I swallowed hard and tried to push emerging tears back down their ducts. For the first time in my 25-year-old relationship with Mr. Burns, I saw him look at me with nothing but hatred. It terrified and saddened me in equal measure. I then nodded and turned to walk out the door, prepared to fire the best worker we had hired in years and another worker that, while not a wonderful employee, was still about ten times more efficient than a handful of other oafs we kept under our wing.

"Oh, and Smithers…" Mr. Burns started. I turned around to face him. "If you can't bring yourself to fire Polonski on my terms, just fire him because he's Jewish. That will be good for a laugh too. Oh, and don't forget that biscuit I wanted."

I nodded and said the same words I had said mindlessly about a million times before: "Yes, sir."


	5. Chapter 5

AUTHORESS'S NOTE: Thank you all for reading and reviewing! I'm sorry that I haven't been able to get back to each of your reviews individually, but please know that each one means a lot to me, and I hope you continue to read and review. Thank you. :)

CHAPTER FIVE:

Ever since I fired Polonski, I felt the usual weight which had grown quite attached to my shoulders over the years become even heavier. As I watched our employees every day on the cameras, witnessing their displays of buffoonery and ineptitude, I couldn't help but wonder where Polonski was, if he had found a new job, and if he had, what company was receiving the merits of his competence, when those skills rightfully belonged here at the power plant.

As I reflected on it, I grew increasingly angry with myself for what I had done. Although I knew that it was my job, although I knew that I had to do what Mr. Burns told me, I still felt like I not only robbed a man of a job he earned but also robbed the plant I adored so dearly of at least one example of what it so sorely needed.

Mr. Burns would continue to complain to me about the workers each day, criticizing them with archaic drivel and outdated humor at which I was forced to laugh. He would carp to me personally, as if I was the one responsible for everything that was wrong with the employees, and I suppose that at one time, I might have been; I was the one who hired them, after all, but I was also the one who had tried to fired most of them at some point before Mr. Burns conjured up some bizarre reason to keep each one employed. Therefore, I was quite frankly sick of hearing him whine, sick of his voice, sick of trying to understand references from long before even my parents were born, sick of listening.

So, for a while, I stopped listening. One day, right as Mr. Burns was pointing out the laziness of even the drool on some worker's mouth as he slept on his control panel, I decided that I was too weary to listen any longer. The words went into my ears but never reached my brain for processing, and for a while, Mr. Burns didn't seem to notice. He continued blathering on, and every once in a while, I uttered a "Yes, sir" and then returned to my thoughts.

It had been about an hour before I heard Mr. Burns' voice impede. At that point, I looked over at him and was startled to see him staring back at me. "Is everything all right, sir?" I asked.

"Yes. But why aren't you answering the question?"

Now I knew my own incompetence the last hour had caught up with me. I should have figured as much would happen, but I didn't really care.

"Um…I didn't hear the question," I offered, realizing with a bit of shame that even my excuses were becoming lazy.

"I asked you who that man was," said Mr. Burns.

When I saw that he was pointing to the one and only Homer Simpson, I snapped. "Dear God, Mr. Burns, that's Homer Simpson!" I exclaimed. "He's worked here for 10 years, and I've reminded you of his name thrice that number this week alone! What the hell is wrong with you?"

I couldn't believe that the enraged voice I heard screaming at Mr. Burns was my own, but I couldn't help it. After my impulsive bout of ire had calmed a bit, I felt fear take over, but then I realized that I wasn't the only one. I had never seen Mr. Burns look as scared as he did then.

Seeing his eyes awash with shock and his mouth agape in trepidation, I wanted to take him in my arms and tell him everything would be all right. Just like I had done once before; one evening when Mr. Burns was positively terrified that a comet was going to hit Springfield, I had approached him bravely, believing too that it may be the end, and had comforted him in a rather intimate fashion.

I surmised afterward that Mr. Burns had taken it as a friendly thing and nothing more, but nonetheless, there was a certain awkwardness between us after we had learned that the comet scare had been assuaged. It didn't last long, though, and the next day, we were back to our usual routine. I presumed that the event was already forgotten by Mr. Burns, but it was not by me. And sometimes, when I felt particularly lonesome, lying in bed alone, with only the eyes of my dolls staring down at me for company, I would remember that day, those long minutes of tacit closeness, and it was sometimes the only thing that could get me to sleep.

But now, looking at the anxious face of my boss, the desire to comfort him was not as strong as the enjoyment of seeing him afraid of me. For once, I wanted to strike him more than embrace him, although I knew that I would never go that far. Still, I wasn't about to apologize for raising my voice. I wanted to be provoked again.

After a few moments of silence, Mr. Burns asked, "What do you mean 'what the hell is wrong with me'? What the hell is wrong with you, Smithers?"

"A lot, but this isn't about me. I want to know what's wrong with you."

Still in shock, Mr. Burns said, "Well…I'm getting older; my memory is fleeting. How am I expected to know by name every employee that works here?"

"Good Lord, we're not talking about that anymore!"

"Then what are we talking about?" He looked genuinely confused. I couldn't fathom how he could possibly be.

"Your hatred for me. That's what we're talking about."

"Hatred for you? Nonsense, Smithers; I don't hate you! Egad, man, what ever gave you that idea?"

I tried to remain composed. "It's not an idea; it's truth. You made it quite clear to me the other day when you made me fire Polonski. By that, you told me that you find my lifestyle despicable, that you wanted to see me pained by my duty, that you thought the whole thing was good for a smirk, and you knew how guilty it would make me feel, and that was probably the best part of all, wasn't it?"

Mr. Burns chuckled, much to my surprise. "You're reading much too much into that, my friend."

"Don't call me that when you don't mean it," I riposted quickly, realizing that I hadn't used the word 'sir' during the entire argument. I couldn't bring myself to do it. It was a term of respect, and for Mr. Burns, I currently had none.

Mr. Burns looked taken aback as he continued, "Smithers, I didn't do it because I hate you."

"Then why?"

Mr. Burns opened his mouth but no words escaped it. I suppose he was searching everything that was still left of his soul and found no ulterior motive. "Well, I…maybe you're right. I don't want to hate you. I hate enough people. But…" he began, a bit reluctant to continue. "I think I do hate you, Smithers."

I swallowed hard and breathed harder. I almost could feel the trickle of blood sliding down my insides from the heart Mr. Burns' words had knifed. But then I realized that that very blood had turned cold; it had been cold for days. I realized that Mr. Burns was not alone in his hatred. And so I uttered quietly, "Likewise, sir."

"You hate me too?"

"I do." I had always imagined saying those words to Mr. Burns at an ornate, romantic wedding some day, surrounded by snowy roses and the faces of Springfield and love, not here, surrounded by those stupid surveillance cameras and emptiness, professing something I never dreamed I would have even felt for this man.

We both looked away, and my whole world felt like it was collapsing like a brick house upon me. I was frozen there, not knowing what else to say or do. I didn't even feel like myself. Gone was that love, that one constant thing that had been present within me for twenty-five years, and I felt like I was dead.

Then Mr. Burns spoke: "I'm sorry I hate you, Smithers, but you must understand that I can't help how I feel."

"I'm sorry for the exact same thing." My words felt like heavy lead on my tongue. "But most of all, I'm sorry for seeking out love wherever I want it to exist."

"Oh, Smithers, don't let me stop you from engaging in your little perverted acts with the male auxiliary. What's done is done, and you've already forced me to hate you, so there's no rationale to stop now."

"I…I didn't mean it like that, sir," I said, looking into his eyes for the first time since our proclamations of mutual hate.

"Then how did you mean it?"

I wondered if this was the time to tell him how I had felt about him all these years. He was right: he already hated me; I couldn't make it any worse, could I? I might as well have told him then, got it all out in the open, given him a real reason to hate me.

But I couldn't do it. Because even as I thought of the words—the well-rehearsed admittance of love—I had no credence in them anymore. My love had turned to hatred so quickly that I could hardly believe it, but it was true. There was no reason to confess to a love that no longer existed.

So, instead, I said, "Never mind, Mr. Burns. Forget I said it."

"I'll try, but the things you say nowadays have been very difficult to forget about."


End file.
